


Wetwork

by Duckyboos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Hate Sex, Hate to Sex, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Murder, Omega Castiel, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Bottom Castiel, Shameless Smut, Snarky Castiel, Swearing, Top Dean Winchester, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Castiel Novak and his brother Gabriel are high-end professional assassins with their own company - Futures Ltd. (Gabriel’s very proud of that one) - catering to those who would rather throw money at a problem than handle it themselves.As far as Castiel is concerned, Dean Winchester and his brother Sam are cut-rate, piss-poor, bargain-bin imitations of professional assassins. They’re out for what they can get while the market’s good and they give honest, hardworking hitmen a bad name.However, Castiel is forced to rethink his outlook on the Winchesters, when it turns out that through a series of (not-so-coincidental) coincidences, he and the elder Winchester are bound together by something much stronger than either of them could have predicted.





	Wetwork

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I've never written ABO before, and for some reason I thought that this would be a good idea. If enough people like it, then I have plans for a couple more in this 'verse.
> 
> Secondly, I started this about 20 months ago (those who follow me on Tumblr may recognise some of the dialogue that I posted way back when) and I just wasn't feeling it at the time. It's not my best work, but it has been pretty fun to come back to and rework into something that isn't completely awful.
> 
> Thirdly, it's also worth noting that I haven't written smut in over a year, so just bear that in mind when reading. My smut-writing skills are "rusty".
> 
> Finally, this is for allrealities, who really helped me iron out some of the details. Sorry it took so long!

Castiel’s first ever kill had been some waste of oxygen out by the dumpsters of a no-name bar when he was barely sixteen. He’d been paid in crumpled, beer-soaked twenties that amounted to forty dollars short of the two hundred he’d been promised. It had been messy, unskilled and sloppy as all hell, but it hadn’t brought with it any feelings of shame or remorse. Nor had it brought any kind of crazed psychopathic bloodlust or a raging boner.

He’d just felt relieved. Though that was almost entirely thanks to the $160 that meant he could find somewhere to rest up for the night and even have a hot meal in the morning.

Nowadays, Castiel is conducting business with less low-rent scumbag drug dealers who stiff him on forty dollars and more high-end scumbag drug dealers, who pay him thousands via deposits into multiple offshore bank accounts.

It still doesn’t bring any feelings of shame, remorse, or bloodlust. And no raging boner either.

But what it  _ does _ bring is pretenders to the throne. Assholes who see what he and Gabe have built from scratch with – literal – blood, sweat, and tears, and want in on that.

Because in Castiel’s experience, there are few things that are certain. Right up there with death and taxes is the fact that if you have anything worth taking, you can bet your life that someone will try.

Right now it’s two someones.

_ Dean and Sam fucking Winchester. _

 

***

 

Castiel has never understood people who buy penthouse apartments. Pending a zombie apocalypse there isn’t much use for a space thirty-two floors above ground. Unless it’s to look down on people literally as well as figuratively. 

The stairs alone are a bitch. Luckily, this time Castiel has managed to grab himself a ride on the service elevator - it only goes as far as the twenty-fifth floor, but it’s something at least. Explaining to their intern why Castiel couldn’t use the normal elevator when about to kill someone on a previous hit had effectively consisted of Gabriel slapping Garth upside the head and telling him to go make some more coffee.

Which is a completely warranted, but not very informative, response.

The job, once Castiel’s inside, proves to be a lot easier than the seven-floor climb. It’s not until he’s cleaning up his knife, sliding it back into the sheath at his hip, that a large gloved hand covers his mouth and his right arm is wrenched up behind his back. Normally, he’d be centering his stance, getting ready to throw his attacker, but there’s something about the subtle scent coming from the guy that stops him. Leather and gun oil and nights spent out by a fire in the woods. Sex. Undeniably masculine. Definitely alpha. 

It limits Castiel’s options for taking him down. Not by much though.

No matter how big they are, they’ve all got a neck and a groin.

“The fuck are _ you _ doing here?”

And a potty mouth apparently.

Castiel doesn’t answer, mostly because he can’t, but even if he could he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say to that. The cooling corpse slumped on the corner sofa is a pretty big clue.

He almost feels bereft when the solid wall of warmth at his back is removed and he’s released. Which is absurd on so many levels. 

He whirls on his attacker, spoiling for a fight, because he’s suddenly feeling antsy and on the edge of something he can’t quite see yet.  

And of course. Dean fucking Winchester.

The shitty, grainy pictures that had been thrust at him when the Winchesters first appeared on the scene eight months earlier haven’t done this man – Dean, the elder brother, and 100% alpha – justice at all. 

Standing there like he’s just stepped off the front cover of GQ magazine, leather jacket clinging to broad shoulders, dark jeans moulded to every curve of muscle, it’s hard not to stare like barely functioning moron. 

And then. That face. Those eyes. Those fucking lips. Jesus. It’s infuriatingly unfair.

Unfair and tragically misplaced. Dean is the enemy. A rival. Castiel should not be waxing lyrical about how pretty the bastard is.

And yet.

He’s seen Dean’s file. Studied it. Out of the two brothers, he’s the more proficient killer. That’s not to say that Sam isn’t adept in his own way; he’s just not as  _ creative _ as Dean. After all, it had been Dean who had famously sent Nick Bennett back to his family with his intestines tied in a bow.

There’s no way to not admire that kind of theatricality in this business.

Castiel swallows hard, ignoring the low curl of desire in his stomach, the trickle of sweat that dribbles down his spine, even though it’s far from hot in the apartment.

Predictably, Dean’s personality offsets his good looks rather nicely, because the next words out of his mouth – his pretty, pretty mouth – are, “Again, the fuck are you doing here?”

Shoving the nagging sense of inevitability to one side, Castiel replies, “Do you actually need me to answer that for you?” 

“Funny.” Dean smiles, a broad, charming flash of white, as he pulls his gloves off, tosses them on the coffee table. Castiel’s momentarily distracted by Dean’s hands, the long-fingered grace of them. “Let me rephrase. I’m contracted to this hit. Deposit has already been spent on all the whisky I can drink, so imagine my surprise when I get here and –“

“You discover that you’re surplus to requirement because it’s already been handled?”

Dean makes a face. “Yeah. Fucking  _ manhandled _ . Do you actually know where the carotid is or did you just take a wild stab at it?” He pauses, clearly pleased with himself, “Literally.”

Castiel clenches his jaw, counts to five, and very politely doesn’t point out that he could maim the fuck out of Dean with nothing more than the gel in his hair and the knock-off Rolex on his wrist. Instead he calmly raises a brow, looking Dean evenly in the eye.  “I can give you a practical demonstration of just how exact I can be when it comes to vital organs and arteries if you’d like.”

Something akin to a smirk crosses Dean’s handsome face. “I’ve got a vital organ I wouldn’t mind you –“

Castiel holds up his hand, halting Dean in his childish innuendo. “No. Just no.” Even if there’s some part of him that wants to hear Dean carry on, wants it to stoke the growing desperation in him. It’s ridiculous, but with each moment that passes, it seems oddly less so. 

“That’s because you’re all mouth, right Novak?” His eyes flick to Castiel’s lips and the desire that Castiel sees there absolutely doesn’t affect him. At all. “Not like you’d actually follow through on your lame threat; you’d never fight me ‘cause you know you’d lose.”

Which is categorically untrue. Dean may have got the jump on him this time, but Castiel could have turned the tables pretty quickly had he wanted to.

So why didn’t he?

“Tell you what Dean, you keep fighting evolution and I’ll fight the winner.”

Instead of the expected not-so-witty rejoinder, Dean simply looks at him strangely for several long moments that seem to stretch on, highlighting a sort of tension in the room that feels pulled far too tight, right on the verge of snapping. When he finally does speak, his voice has taken on a decidedly more serious tone. “Who sent you?”

As if Castiel would share that information with one of his employees, let alone a rival. “Now why the fuck would I tell you that?”

“Awh come on Cas,” Dean wheedles, suddenly his ridiculous self again, grinning at Castiel in a way that he steadfastly refuses to find attractive, “Still bitter about the Crowley contract that we stole out from under your nose?”

Yes, but that’s not the point. “No more so than you are about the Adler hit, I’d imagine.”

Dean’s stupid  _ stupid _ grin doesn’t fade as he shrugs. “Eh.”

Bastard. 

“I’m leaving,” Castiel announces with more strength than he currently feels. His legs are a little shaky and there’s a kind of heat building low in his stomach, pooling at the base of his cock. It’s distracting as fuck and - 

“Do you smell that?” Dean asks interrupting Castiel’s train of thought. “Like apple and cinnamon and  _ goddamn _ \- “

No, Castiel can’t smell anything other than Dean. Scent of him strong and thick in the apartment and it’s nearly overwhelming now. There’s an uncomfortable wetness gathering between his ass cheeks, and it’s with that latest development that it all makes a horrifying amount of sense.

Mate.

He’s heard of alphas and omegas finding their true mates in the supermarket; the latter getting tackled to the dirty linoleum floor by the former as they’re standing there, minding their own business, trying to decide between tuna in brine or sunflower oil, and the next thing they know they’re ass up in some caveman alpha’s Nissan Micra.

But this? This is just _ inconvenient _ . 

Castiel’s on suppressants, has been since he and his brother started their company up eight years ago – only coming off them twice a year to allow for his heats – but apparently his body is  _ done  _ with medically induced obedience and is now rebelling against him in the worst possible way, already busy producing the necessary hormones and slick needed for a successful mating.

It would be embarrassing if there weren’t more pressing issues like the fact that they’re standing over a dead body in an apartment that needs to be vacated rather swiftly.

_ Mate. _

It’s hardly the meeting of mind, body and soul that’s peddled as the romantic ideal to young omegas in schools. Not that Castiel has ever had any grand illusions where mating is concerned. Even from a young age the rom-coms always seemed more concerned with compliance and bland passivity – putting the onus on the omega to be good to the alpha rather than the other way around – than actual romance. Or comedy for that matter. But that’s neither here nor there.

The scent of alpha is impossibly strong now, invading his senses, seeping into every pore, clouding his judgement and he can’t even begin to work through how inappropriate it is that he’s harder than he can ever remember being in the presence of anyone,  _ ever. _

“You need to leave.” Castiel hears himself murmur. Which is the last thing he wants. Why did he say that?

“You’re shitting me, right?” Dean damn-near growls, “You don’t want me to leave. I can smell you. Practically _ taste _ you.  _ Fuck _ .”

Panic setting in alongside the deep throb of wantwanwatmatefuckmefuckmefuckme, Castiel’s at a loss. If he attempts to move at all, he knows that there’s only one direction he’ll be going in.

“What are we gonna do?” Castiel asks, flushed, sweat breaking out along his hairline. If the darkness in Dean’s eyes are any indication, then Castiel already has a pretty good idea of what he wants to do.

Stupid knothead.

It’s gonna be up to Castiel to think of a way out of this that doesn’t result in him ass up and knotted in the bed of the dude he’s just murdered.

He licks his parched lips, tries to think through the thick fog of pheromones.

Dean groans, pained. “Don’t do that.”

Since Dean’s the one who shouldn’t be here to start with, Castiel doesn’t really think that he’s in a position to be issuing orders. So he does it again.

Which, as it turns out, is not one of his smarter decisions.

In two ground-eating strides, the alpha’s shoving into Castiel’s personal space, “Goddamn. You smell  _ so good _ . Look even better. Fuck.”

Fisting his hands in Dean’s leather jacket isn’t even a matter of choice; it’s the only way Castiel can remain standing. “Right back atcha, Dean.” He quips, but it’s not a joke. Nothing about this is. 

A time-delayed echo of himself, the alpha mutters, “Fuck.”

“Think we covered that already,” Castiel says with a wry smile, desperate to ignore how his boxers are damp, clinging to his skin all slippery and wet. His shifts his weight, uncomfortably turned on.

“No,” Dean counters, eyes raking over Castiel’s body in a way that has the low simmer in his veins kicking up to a fucking boil, “Not yet we haven’t.” 

“Yeah,” Castiel agrees softly, lightheaded. “Yeah.” He still doesn’t move.

Green eyes reduced to nothing but black, Dean swallows hard over something invisible, says, “I had no idea you’d be an Omega.”

Nobody ever does. It’s usually a perk. 

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, so going against everything that his upstairs brain is screaming at him to do, curling his fingers tighter into leather, he yanks Dean in the final few inches, muscular body colliding with Castiel’s more compact frame, nothing but shared heat between them.

If he minds the manhandling, the alpha doesn’t say anything, simply goes where he’s directed, nuzzling at Castiel’s neck, scenting him, lips ghosting over Castiel’s pulse point, “Oh, Jesus.” 

Because Castiel’s an ass, he manages to find the wherewithal to quip, “Castiel will do just fine.”

The resulting laugh is rough and heated against Castiel’s skin.  “I know exactly who you are, Cas.” 

Castiel wants to object to the nickname, but can’t find it in himself to complain, not when there’s over six feet of horny alpha rutting against him and he’s so turned on that it’s starting to hurt. Dean’s palms skim down Castiel’s spine, settling on his ass, groping him through his pants.

“Dean.” He whines, a helpless pathetic noise, and then they’re kissing, mouths pressed together, lips dragging wetly between teasing scrapes of teeth and presses of tongue. It’s uncoordinated and messy, but oh so fucking hot and the unbridled ferocity of it all makes Castiel’s knees weak. He finds himself clutching Dean’s broad shoulders, spreading his legs in an obvious invitation, moaning unashamedly into his mouth. That stupid _ stupid  _ mouth that Castiel is in no way growing fond of. 

“Bedroom.” Dean breaks the kiss, panting hard, grinding up into Castiel, pushing the huge bulge of his erection against Castiel’s own rock hard dick. “Bedroom, now.” He latches onto Castiel’s bared throat, apparently not able to keep himself from tasting Castiel, teeth worrying a mark into the skin.

Yes. That sounds like an excellent idea. 

“No.” It’s a last-ditch attempt at common sense; Dean still isn’t up for the task (stupid knothead alpha) and Castiel most likely isn’t either, but at least he’s trying. “We need to get out of here. Can’t fuck in dead guy’s bed.”

Dean lets out an exasperated huff against Castiel’s collarbone, tongue darting out to lap at the sweat gathering there. “Why not? S’not like he’s gonna be needing it any time soon.”

It’s flawless logic. And realistically, neither of them are gonna last much longer, let alone the time it would take to get the elevator/stairs -  _ fucking stairs  _ \- down and into Dean’s car – Yeah, he’s not getting knotted for the first time by his mate in a car. 

Even if Castiel knows that it’s not a Nissan Micra.

“Fine.” He concedes as he shoves Dean’s jacket off his shoulders.

From there to the bedroom, it’s a fumble of clothes, weapons and walls. Mostly Castiel getting shoved up against the latter, as Dean attacks him, pinning Castiel’s hips with his own, holding Castiel in place with the weight of his body. By the time they make it to the horrendously decorated, oversized bedroom with its California King, there’s a trail of discarded clothes and weapons; Dean’s pants, Castiel’s Beretta 418, Dean’s Colt 1911, Castiel’s button-down (now minus the buttons), Dean’s hunting knife, Castiel’s Spydie Civilian.

“So beautiful, so goddamn pretty, gonna fuck you, make you mine. My omega.” Under normal circumstances, Castiel would find Dean’s stream of conscious thought grating as fuck, but right now? It’s only serving to make the experience hotter as the backs of Castiel’s knees hit the bed and suddenly the world turns horizontal and they end up spread out on the Egyptian cotton sheets in a tangle of limbs, Dean above him, bracing his weight on his arms, cocks pressed together through the thin fabric of their boxers.

“Come on, come on.” Castiel grits out, impatient to be rid of the final items of clothing stopping them from getting this show on the road. He still has one shoe, both socks and his boxers on, Dean’s still wearing his shirt and boxers.

A situation that needs to be rectified immediately.

“Shirt.” Castiel pants. “Take your fucking shirt off.” 

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He moves up off Castiel and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing miles of flawless skin and toned muscle. If Castiel wasn’t already on his back, mostly naked, he’d be seriously thinking about it.

And then of course, Dean has to go and ruin it. 

“Like what you see, Novak?”

Bastard.

“I’d like it a lot more if I didn’t also have to hear you.” 

Dean grins, eyes glittering mischievously. Then he’s urging Castiel over onto his stomach with one strong hand on the jut of his hip, the other gripping his shoulder. Castiel goes with it as gracefully as he can manage, trying not to knee Dean in the face (tempting though it may be), until Dean yanks on Castiel’s underwear, shoving them down to his knees, letting Castiel kick them off the rest of the way. A heartbeat later, Dean’s plastering himself to Castiel’s back, bodies molded together, skin on skin, hot heavy weight of him. And oh fuck, Dean’s completely naked, cock riding the cleft of Castiel’s ass and Castiel can’t stop himself from canting his hips back in an open invitation.

Lips next to Castiel’s ear, he asks, “You gonna let me fuck you, Cas?”

Castiel’s answer is a mangled approximation of a word.

“I’m gonna need you to be more specific.” And then Dean’s weight is removed, hands maneuvering Castiel into the position he wants him in, ass up, head down.

Castiel groans, helplessly pinned down by the spread of strong fingers at the nape of his neck. He’ll make Dean pay for this later, but for right now: “Y—ess.”

“Yeah? Gonna let me knot you?”

“Not if you don’t hurry the fuck up.” There’s nothing dignified about this; his ass is exposed, thighs beginning to ache, dick so hard that it hurts, precome drooling down the shaft of it, and all he wants is for Dean to  _ just get the fuck on with it _ .

“Gonna give it to you.” Dean says roughly, one finger sinking into Castiel’s heat, finally,  _ fucking finally _ . 

Castiel whines low in his throat. It’s not enough. Not even close. “Dean.” He chokes out, already hating himself for how close to begging it sounds. But Dean’s too far gone to notice, breathing ragged, finger sliding in and out, working inside Castiel.

Dean pushes another finger in alongside the first, crooks both digits against Castiel’s inner walls, slick drag out, smooth thrust in, and Castiel sucks in a breath between his teeth against the feeling, shoving back into Dean’s hand, palm against his neck, skidding through sweat. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” Dean sounds as wrecked as Castiel feels, skin tight and hot, feverish with how much he wants it, how badly he needs Dean inside him, filling him up, fucking him. He wants Dean to come inside him, on him, rub his come into Castiel’s skin so that anyone will be able to scent that he’s Dean’s. That Dean is his. 

Dean twists his fingers, scissors them, stretching, and it’s entirely unnecessary; Castiel’s leaking enough slick that he can feel it trickling down his perineum, sticky on his inner thigh. 

“If you don’t fuck me right the hell now--” Castiel growls, threat unfinished, words breaking off with a grunt as Dean’s fingers pull out of him. Then the mattress is shifting beneath Castiel’s knees and he feels the head of Dean’s cock nudging between his cheeks, blunt pressure at Castiel’s hole both a threat and promise. 

Castiel’s gasps, hands fisted in the sheets, as Dean sinks slowly into his body, splitting him open, throbbing heat of Dean’s cock somehow the antidote to the furnace burning inside him. Dean lets go of Castiel’s neck, skates his hands down Castiel’s spine, over the smooth curve of his ass, fingertips pressing bruises into the flesh there, holding Castiel still as he slides in, and by the time Dean's all the way inside him, Castiel’s shaking, face turned against the pillow.

Absolutely nothing else matters but the thickness of Dean’s dick inside him, fat length of it so perfect, getting ready to fuck him, knot him, claim him. Castiel’s whole body tenses suddenly, muscles clenching, and Dean swears, a string of completely indecent four letter curses, shifting his hips to gain another inch, to push in further, impossibly deep. He waits a second or two, allowing for Castiel to adjust, before drawing back, pulling to the rim, until he’s barely inside, and then he snaps his hips forward, shoving himself into Castiel’s body and back out again. Dean fucks into him in sharp, shallow jabs, grip firm on Castiel’s hips, pulling him back into each thrust, watching his cock fuck Castiel open. 

Sounds start pouring out of Castiel; loud, shaking moans. And now, getting fucked to within an inch of his sanity, wailing like a virgin on some alpha’s huge cock, he’s beginning to see the perks of a penthouse apartment.

He’s sweating, can feel it dripping off the tip of his nose, can feel it pooling at the base of his spine and neck. Dean is everywhere, all over him. Inside and out. Twisting his hips on every back stroke in a way that drags infuriatingly against Castiel’s insides, driving back in, forcing air from Castiel’s lungs every time.

“Such a perfect omega.” Dean murmurs, rough voice almost reverent as he fucks into him, faster and harder and deeper, hips finding a punishing rhythm that has Castiel crying out wordless and fevered and it’s good, so fucking  _ good _ , cock aching between his legs, toes curled up tight enough to make his calves ache. “Gonna knot you.”

“Yes,” Castiel moans, low and filthy-rough. “Want your big knot.  _ Fuck _ .”

Dean’s returning laugh is hot and dark, quietly triumphant, “You think my knot is big, huh Cas? You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Bastard.

And then with an unsteady groan, Dean’s faltering, jagged rhythm as he thrusts once, twice more before stilling balls deep in Castiel’s ass, hips swivelling, rocking against him in a steadily increasing grind, shoved right up against his prostate.

“Oh fuck,” Castiel’s trembling, weak-kneed, as Dean’s cock swells at the base, fattening with the weight of his knot, and Castiel’s not sure how long he can hold this position; one touch to his own cock and he’s gonna come screaming all over the sheets of a guy he murdered not twenty minutes ago, and he loves it, welcomes it, wants it, all born-again sinner.

He reaches back with one hand and finds the back of Dean’s head, grips a handful of hair and yanks, desperate to see the hot, feral look in those eyes, gaze dark and hooded, while his hips are still working, knot still expanding, tugging against Castiel’s hole. “You gonna mark me up, Alpha? Make me yours?” Castiel twists his torso, stomach muscles protesting at the movement, but they can get to the back of the queue for all the aches and pains he’s gonna have after this, and Dean presses their mouths together in a filthy kiss that’s all tongues and lust.

Dean makes a wounded sound when they break apart, but then he’s leaning in, closing his teeth around the nape of Castiel’s neck, sucking a bruise into the skin there. 

“Shit,” Castiel keens, so close to coming that he can practically taste it. Dean’s fucking huge in him, filling him to the brim and he can’t take it any more, can’t breathe for how badly he needs it. “Dean.”

Dean grunts in response, unlocking his jaw from Castiel’s neck, tongue soothing what Castiel suspects are deep indentations of his teeth buried there forever. 

For all to see.

And that’s what sends him plummeting off the knife edge of pleasure he’s been riding for what feels like hours. For the first time in his life, he’s coming completely untouched, hanging off an alpha knot, orgasm scorching wildfire in his veins, whole body shuddering and pulsing, clenching hard at the crest of it, rippling against Dean as he comes over the sheets and his own stomach, hot and messy and sticky.

“Oh  _ fuck.  _ Cas.”

As the final wave of his orgasm begins to ebb away, taking with it the remnants of his energy, Castiel feels the wet pulse of Dean’s come, filling him up, plug of Dean’s knot holding it all in, keeping it inside Castiel, an attempt to breed, and goddamn if that doesn’t send another jerk through Castiel’s softening cock.

“How long?” Castiel asks after a few moments of nothing but Dean’s harsh pants, voice muffled by the pillow he’s got his face buried in. “How long ‘til your knot goes down?”

“About twenty minutes. Give or take,” Dean answers after a moment, his dick pulsing out another burst of come. He groans softly, rolls over with one big hand curled around Castiel’s shoulder, pulling them onto their sides. 

Castiel’s never been the little spoon before. He doesn’t totally hate it. 

Dean makes a contented noise in the back of his throat, nosing the mark he’d left on Castiel’s skin earlier, faint scratch of his stubble sending tiny stabs of pleasure straight to Castiel’s groin. “Who hired you, Cas?”

Which is just not appropriate bedroom talk. Not that there’s anything appropriate about any of this, but still.

Castiel stays silent, hoping that Dean will take the hint.

No such luck.

“Don’t make me use my alpha voice.” 

“Fuck you.”

Dean’s hips twitch, pelvis still flush to Castiel’s ass. “Yeah, definitely covered that now.”

“Bastard.”

Dean huffs out a soft laugh, breath cool against Castiel’s sweat-soaked skin. It’s kinda nice. But not, because it’s Dean, and Dean Winchester is a bastard (which has also definitely been covered), regardless of the latest mate development. 

“Maybe, but there’s a reason I’m asking, Cas. C’mon. Don’t you wanna know what the fuck happened here? It can’t just be coincidence.” 

It’s a good point. Shame it was made by such an aggravating neanderthal, but life’s full of disappointments. “Roman.”

“As in Dick Roman?”

Dean’s hand is still on Castiel’s shoulder. He wants to shake it off, but can’t bring himself to do it. Goddamn it. “Yes.”

There’s a small pause, and then Dean says, “Well, shit. Roman sent me too.”


End file.
